Last Letter from Lindisfarne
by The Great Dodecahedron
Summary: Vikings and Byzantines. (Mentions events and characters from HtTYD2)


AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is one long in-joke about early North European medieval history. (Spot the historical characters!) If you don't think such jokes are entertaining, I wouldn't recommend this story. If you happen to be a medieval historian or enthusiast (I am not) and you spot an orthographical error, anachronism, etc., please let me know.

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...fyrenne dracan wæron gesewene on þam lifte fleogende...  
_The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle_

**LAST LETTER FROM LINDISFARNE**

Many years to the sixth Constantine, our great Emperor! O Lord preserve the foundation of the Churches! O Lord preserve the keeper of the faith!

I, Michael Lachanodrakon, Imperial Legate of the Roman legions, greet you, emperor of all Romans and keeper of the faith. Your faithful servant has written with his own hand this letter to report to you the progress of our expedition to Britannia. Today as I write this letter it is ante diem III Nonae Aprilis Anno Domini DCCXCIII.

Praise be to God, who through the threat of the Varangian Dragon-Riders has caused the reconciliation of Europe. It is a good and righteous thing to see the themata of Constantinople and the Frankish armies together under the Roman banner. The troops have received with great gratification the news that you have agreed to bestow the name "legion" upon them as in the days of old Rome.

Imperial Legate Carolus, erstwhile king of the Franks, also greets you. It gladdens him to hear that your wedding to his daughter Erythro, called Rotrude, is to take place this summer. He wishes to sail for Constantinople to attend, if we complete this campaign quickly.

By the grace of Christ our fleet has successfully reached the far side of the Britannian channel this day. A landing was made at Portus Dubris, called Dovere by the Britannians. The town was empty of people, but I know not why.

The Gautos you sent to be my bodyguard awaited my arrival at Portus Dubris. He claims his name is Lupus Beowae, or "Beowa's Wolf," Beowa being one of the heathen gods the Gautoi had had before their conversion. I find these barbarian names to be very odd, but the way he holds his sword is undeniable, and I have heard stories about his skill in hunting dragons and a beast known as Grendellus.

As we plan to march north tomorrow, I saw fit to write this letter and send it now, while we are still by the sea.

A messenger approaches now. I sh

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My emperor:

The days have been of such urgency and distress that I have not been able to finish this letter. It is now VI Ides Iunius. I write this letter from an island off the eastern coast of Britannia, called Lindisfarne in the local tongue. Upon this holy island stands a great priory, housing the relics of Saint Cuthbert and an illuminated manuscript of the Gospels equal to any in Constantinople. May these tokens of God's glory shield us as long as they can.

I can hear the monks singing at vespers now. My heart is lifted up, as much as it is possible.

I shall speak plainly: the past two months have been disastrous. We embarked with twenty legions, more than half of all the soldiers under your command. Hiding now with me at Lindisfarne are the men of two centuries of Legio XII Victrix. We are barely one hundred sixty men in all, and we are all who survive.

May Christ bring His wrath and justice upon the Dragon-Riders! On the worshipers of dragons, anathema!

In my last attempt at this letter, O Emperor, I mentioned a messenger coming. He brought word of arriving Dragon-Riders.

We were unable to meet them in battle. These accursed heathens stayed so high in the sky that even when I ordered our ballistae pointed straight upwards, their missiles could not reach the dragons. Some archers tried to shoot them, but their arrows did not reach them either. I ordered the archers to stop after seeing that the arrows were falling back down on the legions and killing my men.

The Dragon-Riders, blotting out the sky in their vast numbers, fought with blasts of flame and rocks dropped from high above, screaming the names of their gods. Since we could not reach them, they maneuvered and attacked us as they wished. All we could do was retreat, but they had also set fire to our ships. We were forced to flee inland. By our first night in Britannia the legions were scattered to the winds, and I had broken wretches instead of men in my retinue. The last time I saw Carolus, he was standing on the field screaming his defiance as a bilious green vapor settled around him, whereupon a burst of flame caused the vapors to explode. He is with the Lord now.

These tactics of high flight, I am told, came about after a few low-flying Dragon-Riders were slewn by the Britannians. The dragons' wings are thin like those of a bat, and easily pierced. Now that they are high above any arrow or missile, there will be no piercing.

We fled north, village by village, as the Dragon-Riders threatened anyone who offered to shelter us. However, the villagers themselves were not attacked; the Dragon-Riders had already raided their lands and treasure and were content to let them be. Every day as we marched, staying in forests as much as possible, we saw dragons flying here and there. Occasionally, we saw blasts of fire and pillars of smoke in the sky, and knew that more Romans were dying.

It took over a month of terrified flight to reach Lindisfarne. With the sea all around us, we can easily see approaching Dragon-Riders. The walls are thick and the monks are vigilant. We may survive here, but I do not think that we will ever leave Lindisfarne alive.

Before my farewell, O Emperor, I have one final gift for you: I have learned much about the Dragon-Riders.

A Dragon-Rider by the name of Snorri Hiccupsson came to visit us.

There was no battle; Hiccupsson says that among his people there is the custom of young men and women flying out to speak with their enemies. The object is not to negotiate peace; the Dragon-Riders are happy with any offer of surrender, but conduct these visits to learn their enemies' ways before killing them.

We sat on a cliff over the sea, Hiccupsson and I. His dragon, whose name he declined to tell me, sat beside us looking at me suspiciously. It was clear that were Hiccupson to be attacked in any way, I would die and he would escape.

I told Hiccupson of the glories of Constantinople, of the vast lands of your empire and the centuries of glorious Roman history.

I told Hiccupson of the almighty Christ and the Holy Church, of the true catholic religion and the Scripture thereof.

He was not moved.

Hiccupsson is a musician from a noble line. He told me the tale of his people and sang me several of their songs. What I learned I consider to be of the utmost importance to pass on to you.

The foremost Dragon-Riders are a tribe of heathens named the Berkings, after an island in the Scanian Isles called Bercia, or Berk in their tongue. Other tribes who learned dragon-riding from them inhabit the rest of the Isles.

The greatest chief of the Berkings was a man called Hiccup Stoickson, the First Dragon-Lord, son of Valka Sigurdsdottir, the First Rider. He and his mother were the ones who discovered that it was possible to tame and ride dragons. God's justice be on them.

Stoickson is revered for his peaceful ways, but in the generations since then the Berkings have become a warlike people. His father was killed during a war brought on by someone wishing to take their people's dragons, and they have great hated for anyone else who tries the same.

I now know why they wage war on us: Hiccupsson told me of a Hibernian missionary who was invited to Bercia some ten years ago. His name goes unrecorded, but when he landed on the island and saw the dragons, he declared that their entire tribe was satanic and that they must slay the dragons and repent. In his fury the strength of Samson must have manifested in him by the Holy Spirit, for with his staff he struck a small dragon on its head, and it died. He burned in demon-fire an instant later.

Hiccupsson swears by his heathen god Wotan that we will not be forgiven. I am not certain whether this missionary ought to be sainted or condemned for foolishness.

He told me many other tales of his people, including that of the Riderless, Stoickson's dragon who lives on to this day, walking about the isle of Bercia since it refuses to fly after the death of its master. Its names are many: Night-Fury, Half-Tail, Untoothed, Offspring of Lightning and Death, Sire of the Hundreds. I learned of the titanic bevilltur-bystr, the king of all dragons. The Berkings, Hiccupsson tells me with pride, have three, and there are a few more scattered around other Dragon-Riding tribes related to the Berkings. I learned of their ingenious mechanical inventions which replace severed limbs, extinguish fires, shut doors, and wage war. They have swords of Greek fire and explosive devices unlike any even Archimedes could have devised; I saw these during their attack on us and their deadliness is not to be doubted.

I learned of my bodyguard Lupus Beowae, who had stolen forth from Lindisfarne a few nights ago to try to contact the capital at Lundenwic. He knew that the Berkings are invincible in the sky but less so on the ground, and fell upon an encampment in the night. The man slew half a dozen dragons and their riders before the rest immolated him. My emperor, these six dragons are the only victory we can claim in Britannia! I shall never speak ill of the names of the Gautoi again.

The last thing Hiccupsson told me was that the Berkings and the other tribes plot to conquer and settle Europe, starting with Britannia, now that the Scanian isles are under their control. Any who accept dragons as noble creatures worthy of friendship may become their vassals, while we Romans who reject them must die.

He asked me if I would become a vassal of the Berkings and their dragons. I swore before the Lord of Hosts that I would never worship any dragon.

Hiccupsson smiled and bade me farewell, saying only that Dragon-Riders would return to this island soon, and in great numbers.

The sun sets now, and we wait for darkness to put a single swift boat to sea, carrying this letter. I pray that it reaches you before the Dragon-Riders intercept it, or God forbid, before the Dragon-Riders reach Constantinople herself.

My emperor, Europe is soon to fall, and Rome with her. Our best twenty legions lie smoldering piles of ash in the Britannian wilderness for only six heathen dead. Take all those who would heed you and flee east. Push through the Persian lands to retake the Holy City of Jerusalem, or make petition to the Emperor T'ang-Te-Tsung in distant Sinae to seek harbor in his lands. An age of dragons has dawned in Europe, and God-fearing men such as ourselves no longer have any place here.

We at the monastery on Lindisfarne shall hold against the Dragon-Rider raids for as long as we can. The more attention we draw, the longer Europe may have to prepare for the onslaught. Our provisions are many and our fortifications are strong, but here there be dragons. As we face our doom, we will pray for the deliverance of Europe until, as the Dragon-Riders say, they come "a-viking" to Lindisfarne.

Farewell, and pax vobiscum.

MICHAEL LACHANODRAKON LEGATUS


End file.
